


only the sun.

by incalyscent



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: 14 billion year old virgin, Canon Disabled Character, Courting Rituals, F/M, Getting Together, I DON'T EVEN GO HERE, Lowercase, Massage, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, local ace does porn, local poet does prose, no beta we die like men, sabe don't look, what was the tag??, why is this so long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27856549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/pseuds/incalyscent
Summary: michael, granted, doesn’t have a lot of options.
Relationships: Ella Lopez/Michael
Comments: 51
Kudos: 155





	only the sun.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArcaneHackist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcaneHackist/gifts).



> you kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. only the sun has come this close, **only the sun.**
> 
> -shauna barbosa, _gps._

michael, granted, doesn’t have a lot of options.

he apparently has too much ptsd to let lucifer touch him. amenadiel has that  _ child _ that he’s too busy with. he still freaks dan out on a good day, even though they work together. he wouldn’t put it past chloe decker to rip half his feathers out.

which leaves him with -

“oh my gosh, dude, hi!” ella says, before yanking him into a hug in her doorway. he should be used to it by now but he’s decidedly  _ not _ .

“yeah,  _ hi _ ,” he says, wiggling out of her grip. at least she doesn’t reek of fear right now, which - now that he thinks of it - doesn’t really make sense. surely she knows why he’s here?

“squirmy as always,” she says, offhandedly. she invites him in, bustling around where she’d set up the pullout mattress with fresh sheets. michael stares at it like it might bite him. it is belatedly that he realizes that she was talking to him, and his brother’s words echo harsh in his head.

_ don’t be a wankstain. _

“what?”

nailed it.

“ _ i said _ ,” ella repeats, he smile knowing, “i did my research but, like, obviously there’s no guide to grooming angel wings, you hear?”

“right.”

she smiles. “do you want anything, coffee, a snack -”

“let’s just get this over with.”

she nods, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, spreading her hands before letting them clap against her sweatpants-clad legs. “alright. no problem.”

he strips off his blazer, and after a brief moment of consideration struggles out of his turtleneck.

“do you want -”

“ _ no _ .”

ella raises her hands again. “alright.”

he stands there in her small apartment living room, bare from the waist up, wondering quickly how it came to this. he doesn’t think too hard about how he already knows the answer. she must sense some hesitation, because she smiles and flaps her hands at him a little bit.

“c’mon, let’s see what we’re working with.”

michael sighs. he regards her down his nose for a few scathing seconds, before rolling his shoulders as best he can before unfurling his wings with a snap and the sharp smell of thunderstorm.

she stares, her face falling into blankness. and michael braces for it, the  _ pity _ , this  _ disgust _ .

“dude.” 

he’s about to fold his wings away and leave, when her face splits into the sunniest thing he’s seen since the damn stars were hung.

“this is  _ so cool _ .”

she reaches for his wing, and remembers her manners when it twitches away from her. the right one spasms, unresponsive, and he watches her notice and choose not to say anything.

michael waves his good arm, and she nods, seemingly righting herself. “right. wanna lay down or sit?”

the thought of her looming over him makes his skin crawl. “i’ll sit.”

so he does, perched tense and crooked at the end of the mattress. he feels her crawl up behind him, and he  _ hates _ that it still makes warning alarms go off in his head.

“alright, so, i have massage oil.” she says it in a playful, singsong way, and michael’s brow furrows even if she can’t see it. “i didn’t know if you made your own.”

he does, but he doesn’t exactly want her hands all over his preen glands so he stays silent.

“you okay if i start?”

“peachy keen,” he responds flatly.

she snorts. “as close to yes as i’m gonna get, huh.”

he braces for it. to his surprise, she does not immediately dig her hands into his feathers. after the snick of the oil cap, she puts her hands on his shoulders. it’s unexpected, and her hands are so gentle he feels a surge of  _ something _ and it makes him flinch.

“still good?”

“i  _ won’t _ be if you keep  _ asking _ .”

she doesn’t take offence, which is more than he deserves, honestly. instead she gently cards her fingers through the feathers of his left wing. she comes out with a fistful of broken feathers. the sensation is  _ odd _ , but not necessarily bad, like someone dragging their fingers against his scalp.

she tuts at him, figuring out a system that works for her; top to bottom, from inside out.

“i may be far from an expert but uh,” she reaches around to put a clump of old charcoal feathers in his lap. he grimaces at them. “this isn’t supposed to happen.”

“it’s been a while.”

“how long’s a while, mike.”

he blows out a breath, eyes turning up. “oh, let’s see. big fall. bigger falling out. when did lucifer get chucked to the curb again?”

ella hits him.

“ow!”

“you haven’t done this since the  _ fall _ ?” she says, incredulous, “no wonder they’re all mucked up! it’s been like, several  _ billion _ years.”

“well that’s not the only reason.”

“you know that’s not what i’m talking about.” her voice quiets. “is what why? because of your -” she lightly strokes her fingers over the tattered coverts of his right wing. it flinches, and he sucks in a breath.

“more like i won’t let them touch me.” he blinks, startled at his truthfulness.

“so this is like, super weird for you.”

he shrugs a shoulder, nods. “i don’t know you well enough for you to have your mits all over my wings, but i don’t really have a lot of options.”

“right.” he can feel her nodding. “yeah. i’ll be quick.”

that’s not exactly what he was implying, but she’s moved back to his left wing and onto a patch of feathers that’s been bothering him for the better part of a century. his wing presses against her touch, encouraging, without his consent, and even though he snatches it back, she notices.

“sweet,” she says, awe in her voice.

she works mostly in silence after that, hopefully in concentration. she is more sure in her movements than he predicted, zipping up misaligned barbs and yanking out loose feathers.

“i had a chicken,” she says, unprompted, and it startles a  _ laugh _ from him, disbelieving but  _ real _ .

“are you comparing me to a chicken.”

“no! i mean - well, yeah, kinda, but like the coolest, most badass chicken in this dimension, at least!”

it’s stupid that that makes michael preen, but it does. she laughs, and he realizes it’s because he’d puffed up his feathers like a strutting rooster, so he huffs and folds them tight.

“dude, it’s  _ fine _ ,” she says, fond, trying to wrestle a feather into place in his now cramped wings, “i think they’re really cool, giant celestial mood rings and all.”

something tight in michael’s chest loosens. “fine.”

she once again lapses into concentrated silence. he can feel the faint buzz of her excitement shimmering through where her hands connect with his feathers, the wonder, the awe. it really isn’t long after that that he lets himself lean into it, eyes drifting half closed, focused lazily on a model of the  _ enterprise  _ sitting on a bookcase across from him.

he physically startles when she says  _ okay! _ and passes her hands over the outer shell of his feathers. she gives him a pat on the hip.

“that one’s done i think,” she says, smoothing her hand up the crooked line of michael’s spine, stopping when he goes rigid under the implication of it, “do you want me to uh. straighten out the other one?”

he thinks, maybe, it should make his skin crawl, the thought of her touching his ravaged wing. it scares him, as much as he tries not to think about it. but he’s not horrified; panic does not blind him.

“i mean,” he says, shifting his shoulders, trying to straighten them out, “what damage could you do, right?”

“right.”

her first touch in tentative, careful on the feathers closest to his back. he can’t  _ really _ feel it, the base of his wing numb with nerve damage. it still twitches. he can’t fold it as close as he can the other, so it’s up to her to manipulate it as she sees fit. she is efficient, clearly sensing some sort of stress rolling off him. she leaves broken feathers she can’t pull out be. they have been broken for billions of years.

her hands over burned patches of feathers; her hands on twisted bones, weak ligaments. the sensation is less, save for the deadened icy hot buzz of his nerves trying to tell him  _ something _ , but eventually her feelings come through, like radio static.

it is not pity, she feels. it is sadness. it is anger, simmering, though he does not know what for. perhaps she feels it for him. and above it all, determination, fitful courage. and softness. nurturing softness.

not disgust, not pity. she feels  _ for _ him, not at him.

he sniffs, reaching to wipe the length of his forearm across his face, drying traitorous wetness.

“michael?” ella says, and the use of his full name drags him out of his head, “are you crying?”

“i’m  _ fine _ .”

“that’s not what i asked.” her voice is firm. it makes him droop. “am i hurting you?”

“no. you’re not hurting me.”

“okay.”

she returns to grooming him, and over the tightness in his throat and the horrible burning in his eyes, he’s vaguely aware of her manipulating his wing, bending it at the wrist, testing its stiffness while she pulls his longest flight feather as straight as it will offer.

when she finishes, she doesn’t speak. she just wraps her arms around michael’s middle and puts her cheek between his wings. michael’s breath hitches a few times, but he doesn’t allow himself to cry again.

he doesn’t remember the last time he was touched with any tenderness.

-

he must surprise her, because once he dresses he turns and says  _ so, same time next week? _ and she lights up, stutters out a  _ oh! yeah! of course! _ before michael shuts the door on her. he thinks about the warmth of her cheek on his back for the next few hours and then falls in the best sleep he’s had in centuries.

-

throughout the week he does his best to be kind to her. he listens to her jammer on about whatever nerdy thing her heart wants; he brings her too sweet, overpriced coffee. he figures he owes her that much just for  _ dealing _ with him and whatever burdonous  _ trauma  _ he brings to the table.

he  _ does _ feel better though - less itchy, and therefore a bit less cranky. as it turns out, when all his feathers are facing the right direction he’s much less irritable.

-

he brings wine next time, much to ella’s clear amusement. she still takes the bottle off of him.

“aw, thanks dude! you didn’t have to do that.”

michael shrugs, already slipping out of his jacket. “i’m more of a gin guy anyways.”

there’s the sound of a cork being removed from behind him, towards the small kitchen. “does that mean you won’t help me drink this?”

“i never said that.”

she rounds the bend drinking straight out of the bottle. he snorts, an approximation of a laugh, but takes it when she holds it out to him. he takes a few solid gulps, wipes his mouth with the back of a sleeve, and hands the bottle back.

“alright, mikey! loosening up!”

“hmm,” he says, disapprovingly, before pulling his shirt over his head. she takes the whole bottle of wine over to the pullout couch and places it on the coffee table that had been dragged over to the side. she pats the mattress.

“alright, c’mere big guy.”

much to her delight, he sinks down onto his belly on the bed. he’s watching her like a hawk, but he honestly couldn’t embarrass himself any more than he did last time. he unfurls his wings, the left faster than the right, and lets them settle. 

“these things are  _ so _ awesome,” she says.

“at least someone thinks so.” his voice is muffled, his cheek pressed to the bedspread. ella tuts, asking with her eyes before she puts her hands on his good wing.

“we gotta work on that self esteem, pal,” she says, lifting his wing up so she can settle it across her lap. michael just scoffs, crossing his arms under his head.

she is unhurried this time - his demeanor is much different this time around; he’s more relaxed, watching her with intent, yes, but he does not feel the need to flinch under her hands, at least while she’s working on his left wing.

she strokes his feathers straight, and it feels...nice.

his eyes are getting heavy when she speaks again, and he jolts back from the precipice of sleep.

“what?”

she laughs, eyes sparkling. his mouth twitches in response.

“i  _ said _ you have no idea how crazy this is for me like, you’re the  _ archangel michael _ .”

“so i’ve been told.”

she reaches to smack him lightly on the shoulder, before returning her hands to his feathers. “you’re kinda a big deal.”

something tightens in michael’s chest. “if you say so.”

“i do say so.”

he huffs a breath, trying for annoyed and landing somewhere else entirely.

it goes quicker the second time around, because it’s not several  _ billion _ years of buildup. there were still parts that needed more work (closer to his back, where he himself can’t reach), but it isn’t long before she’s scratching her nails clean through his feathers.

“michael?”

“yeah?”

“are you purring?”

he stops immediately. “no.”

he cracks his eyes open just to see her raise an eyebrow and shake her head. “okay, whatever you say.”

she gives him a pat when she’s finished, and it feels undignified but michael can’t really make himself care. she slips out from under one wing once he’d lifted it, and switches sides to carefully put the other in her lap. her emotion fizzles and cracks through his broken divinity and he can’t help but tense up, just slightly.

“i was thinking,” ella says, her hands frozen on his coverts, waiting for him to calm down, “that, probably, if we, ya’know, relieved some of the tension from this wing it wouldn’t bother you so bad.”

michael looks at her. he looks at her for a while, as she idly picks at his feathers, straightening them out. there is earnesty in her that he doesn’t experience much.

“sure.”

she lights up. “yeah?”

he hums an affirmative. she claps her hands together, grinning. “ _ awesome _ .”

she cards her fingers through his feathers a few more times, bumping bent feather shafts, and for once, he doesn’t flinch.

“i’m gonna sit on you now.”

“kinda rude.”

she snorts in her laugh. he finds it strangely endearing.

he doesn’t hate the idea as much as he should, he thinks, and that scares him a bit. still, he lifts his wing as best he can to let her out from underneath it. she pets a hand over his back, keeping that thin point of contact so she doesn’t startle him when she moves the straddle his waist.

his wings tense, pulling close to his shoulders. he eyes her over his shoulder, hard thump of fight-or-flight hammering in his stomach.

“it’s just me,” she says gently, and michael very deliberately lets his wings down. her smile is soft at the edges.

she puts her hands about midway up his back, right where the gnarled knot of scar tissue ends. his nerves fire the signal for  _ something, somewhere _ , and that alone makes him clench his jaw.

“does that hurt?”

“no.”

taking that as a go-ahead, ella puts her hands to the base of his wing, and bears down on the muscle attaching it to his back. something spasms, but he’s only vaguely aware of it so it mostly feels  _ weird  _ more than anything else.

“dude, you are  _ tense _ .”

“you would be too, if lucifer was your brother.”

she laughs, hands messing with some of his feathers, like she forgot what she was doing for a moment. “oh, he’s not  _ that _ bad.”

“hmm.”

“okay,  _ sometimes _ he’s that bad.” ella’s fingers press into a particularly angry spot and michael grinds his teeth, flesh under her hands twitching without his control. 

“fine. i’ll give it to you.”

his wing jerks as something gives, and then white hot relief floods through his blood. he must make a noise or swear or  _ something  _ because ella is shaking with laughter on top of him. he can feel it through her thighs.

“good?”

“ _ oh yeah _ .”

the oil on her hands softens up his scar. even laying down, he pushes his hands out in front of him and stretches like a cat. his eyes close as ella flattens her hands along the column of his spine and starts rolling out the tension there.

he had forgotten how  _ nice _ it felt to be touched.

“you awake?”

“mmph.”

“i’m gonna try and crack this joint,” she says. he feels her lean over him to take another swig of wine. he snorts.

“yup.”

it’s hard, because michael’s wing is longer than ella is tall, but she manages to gather it up, one hand on either side of his wrist joint. she does not yank. she just slowly pulls his wing up until it reaches a ninety-degree angle with his back.

the sound the joint makes as it pops is  _ astounding _ .

“ _ fucking _ hell.”

“good or bad?”

michael lifts his wing from her hands, holds it up as if to flap. stretches it out as far as it will go, before letting it go limp. it’s like something at the base of his  _ skull _ has unscrewed. “really fuckin’ good.”

“no wonder you’re so crabby,” ella says brightly, “your feathers were all in a twist and i could use your back as a pizza stone.”

“ _ please _ don’t.”

“i don’t think you’d fit in the oven.”

he barks a singular laugh. he settles a little more into the bedding. there is something fuzzy in his head, but it does not come with the stress of intoxication or confusion. control is one thing he has never wanted to give away. but now, as ella’s hands travel up his back seemingly without any direction, he finds that he could hardly care less.

his good wing follows her hands. she laughs.

“this one too?”

“mm. yes please.”

“so  _ polite _ .” she strokes her fingers through his feathers as a starting touch as to not startle him. “if only i had known what i needed to do to get your cooperation sooner.”

he smacks her - lightly - with the wrist of his wing.

“hey!”

this one isn’t as stiff, isn’t as damaged - micheal doesn’t feel that stretch and pull of pain, so it just feels  _ nice _ when she cracks his wing, and he makes a low, happy sound of content when she does it. she copies it.

“you’re makin’ me sleepy,” she says, releasing his wing and readjusting the feathers she’d mussed. he makes a non-committal noise. she reaches up to ruffle his hair, and only then does he open his eyes to scowl at her. he knows it doesn’t come off as threatening, even if that was what he was going for.

she drags her fingertips back down his back, not doing anything much but mindlessly touching. michael is aware of his wings splayed invitingly, the occasional twitch of them, but he can’t really feel much in the way of self-consciousness. he’d forgotten about the post-grooming sleepiness. 

she tucks her hands underneath a wing, probably to adjust a feather. she pauses.

“hey mike?”

“mm?”

“you’re leaking.”

michael jolts - slow, his mind half a second behind his body - before folding an arm to awkwardly press to his ribs. preen oil meets the backs of his knuckles.

“oh. yeah. that happens sometimes.”

“so you  _ do _ have uropygial glands,” she says, her voice slowly winding into excitement, “that is  _ so _ cool.”

michael snorts, rubbing the oil off his hand onto the sheets. “sure.”

“it also means all this massage oil -” she pauses for effect - “ _ wasted _ .”

“oh,  _ wasted _ ? i see how it is.”

“you  _ know _ that’s not what i meant,” she says, “i’ll happily do this again for you.”

something clenches in michael’s chest. he doesn’t respond, just turns his face into the pillow and shuts his eyes.

he doesn’t remember falling asleep. but he does remember waking up at an awful hour of the morning to a dark room, only the streetlights shining through the open curtains. and ella is next to him, still in the clothes she was wearing before, curled up with her back to him. he doesn’t want to wake her. he stays.

-

the thing about michael is that ella  _ really _ likes him.

sure, he’s sarcastic and grouchy, bitter on the best of days and on the worst nothing short of downright  _ mean _ , but she gets it.

how long did he spend as god’s blunt weapon? if the stories are true, ella would rather not think about it. he has a right to the way he acts.

but she’s also seen him be kind, even if it’s in an awkward, offhanded sort of way. and he’s funny when he wants to be. and above all he is  _ trying _ . that can’t be said for even the best of humanity.

so maybe she has a bit of a crush on him. so what if she nearly swallowed her tongue when he took his shirt off that first time she groomed him? so what if she used some of the noises he made as fap fodder?

a few years ago she’d be kicking herself. just another bad dude she’s attracted to under her belt. but he’s different now. he’s better.

-

michael is actually  _ working _ , when lucifer comes over and literally  _ sits _ on the file he’s reading.

michael sighs. oh, the trials he has to endure to learn patience.

he rolls his gaze up, letting it land on lucifer’s smug face. “what.”

“you’re  _ courting _ .”

michael stiffens. he drops his eyes. “don’t be stupid.”

“what’s all this then?” lucifer’s hand waves at his outfit in michael’s peripheral.

“clothes, lucifer. you should try them sometime.” the deep, jewel-tone red of his blazer had been very  _ enticing _ this morning, michael admits, but that doesn’t mean -

“very funny.” lucifer says dryly. “you can try to hide it from yourself all you like, but you can’t hide it from me. you’re stinking up the place with your pheromones.”

michael has nothing to say to that. he just drums his fingers on the desk and presses his mouth to a thin line. after a moment, lucifer hops off his desk, and michael breathes a short breath and returns his eyes to the case file.

“if you hurt her -” michael looks up suddenly, fast enough for something in his back to protest, just in time to see lucifer’s eyes fade from red - “i’ll hurt you.”

“noted.”

“excellent.”

michael watches him saunter away, probably to go bother his beloved detective. something trips up in michael’s chest; how is he supposed to know what will hurt her and what will keep her whole?

-

he’s definitely courting.

he spends the whole week desperately vying for ella’s attention despite hating every second of it. he’s at her beckon call, watching her through the pane of glass in which he can see into the lab. he’s pathetic. it’s hopeless. lucifer leaves him very polished coins for michael on his desk to leave in the lab, because he just couldn’t tolerate his pining pheromones anymore.

it doesn’t really work, but it’s the thought that counts.

the urge to show her how  _ excellent _ of a provider he is, how  _ good  _ and  _ strong _ is trumped by the fact that he’s just...not. and this driving instinct is sending him up the wall because he just can’t  _ do _ anything about it.

he builds a little nest on his bed at home and feels sorry for himself. as it draws closer to the nondescript tuesday in which he has been over to get preened, he tries to convince himself he doesn’t have to go.

but he  _ wants _ to. and at this point, he’s too weak to deny himself. it’s not like she can read into his behaviour. it’s not like she  _ knows _ .

-

ella is sure he won’t come by again, because he’s kind of squirrely and she’s  _ sure _ he doesn’t need his wings groomed every week. but at the same time after work there’s a knock on her door, and when she opens it michael is there with what is apparently going to be a traditional bottle of wine. the shrinkwrap is very shiny. she takes it when he hands it to her, and then drags him into a hug.

he still doesn’t really know how to deal with that, but it’s fine. at least he doesn’t squirm this time.

“i wasn’t expecting you,” she says. he stares at her, staying in the doorway even when she steps back to invite him in. “it’s fine. i don’t have anywhere to be.”

tension bleeds out of his one shoulder. “i forgot i needed to make an appointment.”

ella snorts. she feels the affection in her hands, and she wants to touch him with it. “i think i can take a walk in.”

he smiles - a crooked thing, an absence of teeth - and while ella goes to hide the wine away for a sad evening, michael peels off his jacket.

“that’s a nice colour on you.”

michael pauses before he drops his blazer on the back of the couch. “thanks.”

he turns to yank off his shirt, and ella lets her eyes trail over the shifting muscle in his back. over the tight knit swath of scar tissue cutting close to his spine. he turns and she drops her eyes.

he isn’t so jumpy this time. it seems easy for him to sprawl on his belly after he’d toed his shoes off, though he keeps a close eye on her. she doesn’t mind. he unfurls his wings slowly, and the smell hits her; salt and ozone. she wonders if that’s what heaven smells like.

ella puts her hand on his shoulder, lets her fingers trail over every bump in his spine before she kneels on the mattress. he pulls his wings up, and she slings a leg over him before he settles them again, their flight feathers tickling her thighs.

“ready?”

“mhm.”

“we’re gonna go o’natural on the oil this time, okay buddy? probably better for your wings.”

“should be fine.”

as if to prove it, he lifts his left wing, making it easier for her to get to his preen glands. she gives that wing a pat. he grumbles.

she’s careful to only touch him with the utmost amount of tenderness she can. he’s already felt so much violence. she feels around on his ribs, around where she noticed the oil last time. she finds the gland, and pets her fingers over it to gather oil on her fingertips. he sucks in a breath, and is abruptly tense underneath her.

“ah,” he says. his wings arch, feathers spreading.

“did that hurt?” she thought she was being gentle, but she has no idea how sensitive  _ preen glands _ are, like a regular human being.

“that’s not the word i would use.” there’s an edge of confusion on his voice. “it’s fine. just - be careful.”

ella nods. “right. no problem.”

she’s gentle when she passes her hands through his top layer of coverts, and he visibly relaxes again. the difference between this and the oil she was using before is startling; her hands leave behind feathers like glimmering graphite. she feels her eyes get big, and she passes her hands over the freshly clean spot once more just to feel its silky sheen against her skin.

“wow.”

“what?”

“this works way better,” she says, reaching to get more oil on her hands, “your feathers are really pretty.”

his one wing flares out to expose his preen glands to her. he shudders then she touches them. “thanks.”

“you’re sure this is fine?” she sits back, her hands smelling like a thunderstorm. “you’re acting kinda weird.”

“i haven’t been touched like this in literal  _ millenia _ .” 

“right. you know what? you’re right.”

there’s something in the crescent of his face that flashes quick as lightning - a shock at bearing something so vulnerable, she thinks. she sees it around the odd brightness of his eyes and the gentle red stain beginning to appear on his cheeks. his wing follows her touch, feathers fluffing up, wingtips twitching. they’re being more active than they have been before, and it seems they’re entirely out of his control. she doesn’t comment on it.

she’s able to get his good wing done, unrushed, unhurried, laying each feather into its place. they’re shining, faintly iridescent, by the time she’s done. michael had twitched and sucked in breath and squirmed a bit throughout, but she wasn’t super concerned about it. it was the flush that had crept in along the back of his neck that was the most odd.

she reaches to touch it, lightly drag her fingertips down the curved line of his spine. he starts rumbling, a quiet sound that she more  _ feels _ than hears. it stops when her nails scratch through the short downy feathers close to his back.

it stops because he  _ moans _ , short and soft and sweet, but undeniable.

ella freezes. he locks up under her.

“uh,” she says.

“ _ uh _ ,” he responds. there’s a beat. he groans again, this time full of something else, before he folds his good wing to tap her shoulder with its wrist. “off.”

ella scrambles off of him, and he pushes himself up onto his knees, taking steadying breaths. she scoots around, closer, to take a look at his face. he has his wrists braced on his thighs, knees apart, his eyes focused somewhere between them. they are lidded, black as coal, and his breath is coming stilted between his teeth.

and, not that she’s checking or anything, but he’s hard in his slacks. heat slithers into ella’s belly.

“oh.”

he swallows. he looks almost nervous. “this is new,” he says, aiming for humour and falling terribly flat. he huffs. “i’ll go.”

“no, hey -” ella grabs his wrists before he can even shift to move, and he turns to stare at her - “i get it. it’s  _ totally _ normal. i bet it feels nice, huh?”

michael chuckles, disbelieving. his voice is low when he says  _ it feels so fuckin’ good _ and that also slides into ella’s belly, twisting heat and the choking thrill of odd anticipation.

“i’m not going to make you stay, but -” ella slides her hand down to weave her fingers into his own trembling grasp - “i’d like you to.”

he studies her, clearly fighting within himself; what he wants versus what he thinks he deserves. his wings fold close.

“i’ve never even kissed anyone before.”

ella blinks. “right, cause you’re like, literally an angel.”

“yeah.”

“do you want to?”

his eyes drop to her lips, just briefly. “yeah.”

ella smiles. she brings her free hand up to brush his unruly hair from his forehead. “i’m going to kiss you now.”

“ _ yeah _ .”

she chuckles, leans in and kisses him. it’s not bad. he doesn’t really know what to do with his hands, until he cradles her jaw with his unsteady right. she’s able to coax his mouth with hers, him tentatively copying her until they work in a gentle give and take. they part after a long moment, and he is staring at her in abstract wonder. it makes her snort a laugh, and he scowls, though it’s nowhere near genuine. 

“are you going to stay?” 

he nods, and without a word, scoots back and lays back down on his belly. ella grins, doing everything in her power to keep from  _ pouncing  _ on him. instead, she is slow and careful, straddling him again.

“keep on keeping on?” she strokes her hands down his back and he purrs, low and animallike. his nod is miniscule. “alright.”

she puts her hands back in his feathers, one in the short feathers of each wing, and immediately a ripple rocks through him, and his feather splay out, the slightest bit of tremble in them.

“they’re sensitive, huh.”

“one of them is, at least.” his voice is tight. she doesn’t think he’d appreciate her pulling on them, so she rakes her nails through them instead, pushing in enough to meet warm flesh through the feathers of his left wing. he makes a little noise, that wing pushing back into her touch.

“what changed? between the last time we did this and now?”

she moves to his right wing, making sure to be gentle when she gathers up more oil from high on his ribs. it doesn’t matter, because he still sucks a breath and has to hold himself still; she can feel it in the tension of his body.

“i can feel how you feel when you touch my wings.”

heat floods ella’s face. “so you can tell i’m hot for you.”

“yeah.”

ella groans. “hella embarrassing dude.”

michael’s relaxed again under the care of her hands. his preen oil softens the ravaged feathers, soothing scorched barbs and broken feather shafts. “clearly it has its perks.”

with measured deliberacy, ella bends her fingers and drags both sets of them over both his preen glands. he gasps and bucks beneath her, hands clenching in the cheap sheets below him.

“oh f -” he says, before it melds into a thin, quiet noise that she’s definitely storing away for later. his wings flare up, baring his sides to her, even as she wrestles his wing back down so she can finish grooming it. he has less feathers on this wing, so it takes less time, but she’s noticed it’s twitching in her grasp, responding - however belatedly, she knows he has nerve damage - to her touch. she’s started being able to hear him breathe. 

“still okay down there?” she asks. he responds with a positive amalgamation of syllables. “great.”

she doesn’t want to overwhelm him - not yet, at least - so she leaves his oil glands alone for now. now that he is melted into the mattress, and she’s  _ sure  _ he’s not going to up and leave, she takes the time to map him out.

she drags her fingers through his feathers, over the arch of his left wing, which presses into her hands encouragingly. she smiles, giving it an extra stroke and not missing the shiver that trembles through it; how michael turns to breath a noise into the sheets below. she brings her hands back to his shoulders, down over downy fluff, gently digs her thumbs into the muscle on either side of his spine. he arches, just slightly, his wings lowering. their wingtips twitch, just half a second off from one another in terms of timing.

“you said you can’t feel this one as much?” ella switches her hands to his right wing. it bristles under her touch, but only in certain areas; the flight feathers furthest from her, and the coverts in the center of his wing.

“no, i can’t.”

“but you said you can feel how i’m feeling.”

“it comes and goes.” there’s raspiness in his voice, an odd sort of relaxed tension to him. he doesn’t know what to expect, she realizes, but he  _ wants  _ it, whatever it is.

she puts one hand on the wrist of his wing, feeling the blunt tip of his thumb claw on her palm, the other where his wing joins with his back. and she  _ thinks _ . thinks about the things she wants to do to him and him to her; thinks about using that one, singular noise he made in their last session to rub one out almost every night; thinks about making him come with her name on his lips and his wings shaking underneath her hands.

he gasps, and his own arousal  _ snaps _ back into her like an electric shock, setting her nerves alight. she makes an  _ extremely _ appreciative noise, only coming back into herself to notice him rut once, twice, against the bed before going still.

“that’s fun,” she says. he makes a noise that could be a ragged laugh. heat throbs low in her belly and his breathing is timed to it, honed in on her heartbeat. she leans in, kisses the back of his neck, and he  _ melts _ .

it also brings her closer to him and -  _ oh _ .

“is it weird to say you smell  _ really _ good?”

he chokes down another noise, clearly intent on being quiet. “probably the pheromones.”

“you guys do that?”

“yeah.” he sounds breathless.

ella pauses for a long moment, she idly scratches her fingers through some of his smaller feathers and he shudders. “that’s why i wanna lick this oil off my hands so bad, huh?”

“probably.”

“that’s  _ super _ cool.”

he makes a low whine, twitching his left wingtip until it touches her leg. twisting arousal shoots through her just from that alone.

“right,” ella says on the end of a gasp, “how about angel class afterwards?”

“deal.”

so she picks apart where he likes to be touched - he’s right, his crooked wing doesn’t react as well as the other, but that’s okay. he likes his outermost feather to be stroked, actively folding his wings in so she can reach, twitching his wingtips and shuddering through his body when she does. and then, of course, the short feathers close to his back, where she can scratch her nails through and make him buck and swallow down a sound.

“if you wanna make some noise i’m all ears, buddy.”

“ _ fuck! _ ” the word sounds like it clawed its way out of him.

“eloquent as always.”

he laughs, almost silent, harsh and hazy with pleasure. “fuck off.”

“nope.”

and then, of course, ella slips her hands from feathers, and michael lifts his wings so she can better reach his preen glands and ella feels hot just from his eagerness. she pets her fingers over his preen glands again, and, now given permission, michael makes a low, grating groan that skitters over ella’s nerves. his wings lift, lower, fold in, splay, like he can’t decide where he wants to put them.

“that’s the ticket, huh?”

“ _ fuck _ yeah.”

he’s got his forehead pressed to the sheets, fists curled in them too. his right wing is drooped, limp, off the edge of the bed, but the other has decided on a gentle arch, out of the way of her hands, his feathers splayed wide.

she leaves the right side alone, setting her right hand on his spine between his wings, feeling the waves of his breath, and realizing, belatedly, that he is  _ trembling _ . so she pets him, soothing, dots a few kisses along his shoulder.

“relax,” she says, “it’s okay to feel it.”

she feels the little nub with her thumb and  _ rubs _ . michael bucks and moans and ruts helplessly against the bed a few times, wings twitching, and when he tries to halt his hips again she presses her own up against them.

“if it feels good, do it,” she says, to his ear, before he gives it a little nip. he makes a short, sharp sound, exhaling when he grinds back down into the mattress. “like that, yeah.”

“ _ fuck _ ,” he says earnestly, muffled into the sheets. he spreads his knees apart to get better leverage, making a little growl of frustration when he doesn’t get it and ends up snaking a hand underneath him to palm at his cock. and  _ yeah _ , that’s hot. she thinks she could spend a  _ lot _ of time winding him up and bringing him back down over and over again but she thinks,  _ perhaps _ , she should have some modum of mercy the first go around.

she gathers up his right wing in her hands, stroking, petting, feeling him bleed out tension underneath her, finally turning his face so she can see a crescent of it. his pupils are blown, and he’s flushed high on his cheekbones. his black eyes are wide, his mouth open and panting. ella can’t help it; she strokes her knuckles over his cheek, a soft, tender touch, and his eyes half close. she scratches her fingers through his hair on the way back to where they were before and he makes a raspy, rumbly sound that makes her smile.

and then she tucks her fingers back around his ribs and his wing twitches sporadically in her grasp; she hits slick oil and he chokes back a keening sound. his hips stutter; he turns his face back to the sheets.

“i can make you come just like this, right?”

michael makes a pained sound, grinding slow into the heel of his hand. he nods, a bit frantically.

“cool.”

he laughs, one harsh sound that melds into a gravelly gasp when she rubs the gland under his right wing. she can tell he’s hanging onto the edge by his fingertips. his free hand is white-knuckled in the sheets. “ _ don’t _ make me beg,” he says, voice drawn.

isn’t that a thought. maybe next time.  _ next time _ . this time she chuckles, slipping slick hands to his lower back to drag them almost all the way up his spine, his back arching along with it, until she can scratch nails over both sets of preen glands, once going up, once coming back down, and then he’s gone. his voice catches on a high, reedy noise as he comes, hips bucking, wings shaking. ella buries her fingers in his feathers and feels that hot rush of looping pleasure, hears him gasp, his wings twitching back into her hands.

she keeps her hands in his feathers until she’s wrung the last ebb of pleasure from them, until he pulls the left one away while the other twitches.

“okay,  _ stop _ ,” he grits out, and ella is quick to take her hands off of him. she ignores the hot twist of arousal between her legs to focus on his stuttering breath, how he’s still trembling  _ hard _ through his aftershocks. she waits until he goes lax and boneless in the afterglow, trailing her fingers up and down his spine, just touching.

“turn over?”

she has to climb off him or risk being smacked with a rogue wing. he’s still flushed red, mouth open and panting, but his eyes land on her and they are wide, the bewilderment fading from them. much to her surprise, he reaches for her, that persistent shake wavering his grasp. she takes his hands. she goes to him.

“that good?” ella slings a leg back over his waist. she doesn’t let go of his hands, instead weaving their fingers together. he lets her.

“i think i blacked out,” he says, and she laughs. she watches him catalogue her, his eyes slow in their roam. he must see the flush on her skin, the way she’s taking air faster, her hands warm. “that turned you on, didn’t it?”

“did it  _ ever _ ,” ella says at the heels of a chuckle. his wings bristle, their long primaries brushing against her bent knees. she shivers.

“do want me to get you off?”

there’s a fresh wave of heat that rushes over her. he frees one hand so that he can put it on her hip, but doesn’t move it further. ella runs a hand over his chest, through the short crop of hair there, and he seems to forget himself for a moment, eyelids lowering, quiet hum in his throat.

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.”

she looks at him, and for once his face is open. it makes him look scared a bit, earnest. she swallows.

“yeah i do. i’ll show you.”

relief is a gust of wind across his features. “okay.”

it’s a bit of a dance to get her shorts off, trying not to kneel on freshly groomed feathers, but she manages. and michael does that thing where he tries  _ so hard _ not to look that it’s obvious he wants to. she chuckles, grabbing his face to meet his eyes. she leans in and kisses him slow, until he relaxes under her lips. they scoot back so he can prop himself up against the backrest of the foldout couch.

she puts her hand over his, and, watching him closely, drags it between her legs. his eyes drop, finally, to where he’s touching her, lips parting.

“you good?” ella has to refrain from grinding forward. michael swallows.

“i’m good.”

“perfect.”

she guides his fingers, hers over his, into rubbing her clit. she gasps and bucks because  _ damn _ she’s closer than she thought she was. he doesn’t seem to mind, face tipping back up to watch her face melt in pleasure.

she doesn’t think too hard about how her touch is slick and hot with his oil.

“please do not take this as an indication of usual stamina ‘cause i ain’t gonna last,” she says, “that touch telepathy horny feedback loop really is something else.”

michael laughs, one short sound, but he’s back to focusing on touching her, up and down, just like she’s showing him. “i’ll keep it in mind.”

she takes her hand off of his to curl onto his shoulder. “keep going like that.”

he swallows. “okay.”

she leans back in to kiss him, and he meets her halfway this time, getting the hang of it. she seeks forwards with her tongue and he parts his lips for her. the soft sound he makes when she delves into his mouth is hot on her nerves.

“faster,” she breathes into his mouth. he complies. “ _ yeah _ , just like that.”

she tips her head back and it seems to be instinct that makes him put his mouth on her neck. it’s hot and open-mouthed and  _ really _ good. and he gets his other hand in her hair and  _ pulls _ , just a little bit, and it makes her gasp.

“okay, yeah, that’s really good,” she pants. he makes a low rumbling sound, and ella feels herself teeter on the precipice of orgasm. her voice sticks, so she joins his fingers, pressing them down just a little harder.

all she gets out is a strangled moan before she comes, shuddering through it. he says  _ oh, fuck _ , under his breath, staying with her encouragement, rubbing her clit firm and slow, just the way she likes it. she moves her hand to grab his wrist after a moment, halting his movement.

“that’s good,” she says, breathless. he pulls his hands away, and stares at the slick wetness on his fingers. without a second thought he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“jesus christ,” she breathes. michael makes a face.

“don’t bring him into it.”

“sorry,” ella laughs. after a moment of consideration, she sticks one of her oil-slick fingers into her mouth, mirroring him. the taste isn’t anything she can pinpoint; salt, the air before a storm - persimmon, maybe. when she directs her focus back on michael his eyes are burning hot. she grins at him.

“hey mike?”

“yeah?”

“i’m going to cuddle you now.”

“mmph.”

she shifts off to the side. then sits bolt upright, startling him. “wait here.”

she scrambles down the hall and into her room, dumping a whole drawer of clothes on the floor before she can find the oversized pair of pajama pants that she’s worn for multiple breakdowns.

when she comes back michael has propped himself up, looking sufficiently sticky. his skin is gleaming with oil. her sheets are probably ruined. she doesn’t care. she goes to him, thrusting the pants into his chest.

“you’re a lifesaver,” he says. it is a surprising lack of shame in which he peels off his other pants and slips the new ones on.

“oh. okay.” ella tries to pretend she doesn’t notice he’s hung like a horse. the pj’s are a little too tight. his ass is amazing.

she’s so  _ fucked _ .

“anyways,” she says, clearing her throat, “cuddling.”

she plasters herself to his side. his feathers brush her shoulders. he freezes for a moment, and belatedly, she feels her apprehension bleed into her. he settles for putting an arm around her waist. his heartbeat is steady under her palm.

“so,” she says, tapping on the wing closest to her, “angel class. spill.”

he sighs. pauses. rolls onto his side towards her, and slings his left wing over the both of them, shrouding them in warm darkness and privacy.

wings are divinity manifested. angels self actualize (and ella does best to hold her tongue; if that’s true, what’s keeping him in so much pain?). grooming is a social activity in which they form close bonds.

he is surprisingly open about it, up until he mentions  _ courting _ . nesting. flashy colours. gifts.

“what? like funky little birds of paradise?”

he narrows his eyes. “something like that.”

realization hits her like a train. she smacks him on the chest.

“hey!”

“oh my god, michael, the  _ quarters _ .”

he grumbles, looking embarrassed. “yeah, that was me.”

“well thank you.” she laughs when he looks startled. “you bought me many a vending machine snack.”

he blinks.

“also what you’re saying is you wanna make like, the  _ coolest _ pillow fort with me.”

he groans, smoothing a hand over his face. ella taps on his chest and he blinks down at her. she leans up and pecks him on the lips. “let’s do it.”

she grabs every pillow and throw blanket she can find and dumps them on the bed. mostly she watches as he meticulously puts everything in the right place with single-minded focus. his result is a fleece-lined donut that does actually look very comfortable. he shifts on his feet, chewing on his cheek, staring at it like it could relent.

“looks good dude.”

his wings puff up. she snorts. she doesn’t  _ really _ know how to proceed, but she climbs into the nest and snuggles down.

he looks delighted. 

he joins her, carefully, before he blankets her with a wing again, this time the right. she gets her hands on it - gently - and brushes a few feathers straight. he sobers, watching her intently, his eyes glittering black and unreadable in the soft light.

“this is from the fall, isn’t it?”

she expects him to flinch. to recoil back into himself, fold his wings away and leave. but he doesn’t.

“yes.”

ella swallows. she’s opened a door she barely knows how to navigate. “i’m sorry. that must’ve been so hard for you.”

he blinks. leans back. “what?”

“you know -” ella circles a hand in the air - “sending your brother to hell. carrying out god’s sins for him, yada yada.”

“i thought you were catholic.”

“i  _ am _ , dummy. but that doesn’t mean i wasn’t ever  _ sad _ for you.”

he stares at her. “for  _ me _ ? you’re not getting me mixed up with someone else?”

ella shakes her head. “nope. i thought it was cruel, to make you damn your own brother.”

michael’s throat bobs. “it was.”

“and then there’s the whole  _ wing _ thing, and the  _ sword _ thing -”

“i was a healer, once.”

ella feels herself go soft. “i know.”

it is so slowly in which he curls his wing to draw her close. they are quiet. ella eventually drifts off. she’s not sure michael does, but he stays. he stays.

-

they show up to work together, and michael sure is  _ glad  _ that lucifer is almost always late because he’s not sure he’d live that down. it doesn’t matter much, because the first time he walks into the lab, ella bounces up to her toes and kisses him square on the mouth.

he looks through the window. lucifer is wiggling his fingers at him in a mock wave, perched on the end of chloe’s desk, grinning. chloe is pointedly not looking, but her eyebrows are raised so high they disappear into her bangs.

michael mentally prepares for how  _ annoying _ lucifer is going to be later, but in the meantime - 

he leans down and kisses her back.

**Author's Note:**

> incalyscent-writes.tumblr.com


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